Adebola Journal 1
12 Years ago... Duante chatted up his customer, a dusty Igbo tribesman from outside of the city while trying to keep one eye on the street kid nervously sidling into his stall. They had almost reached a deal for the used machine gun, but both had to keep complaining, for politeness-sake, insisting that the other was trying to rob him blind. Duante usually enjoyed this part of the deal, but he kept being distracted by the kid. Under the dirt and ragged headscarf, he couldn’t even tell if it was a boy or a girl, human or metahuman, just another scrawny, underfed body in a market with too many of them. The three area boys he’d paid off to watch his stall for thieves were ignoring the kid, which either meant they knew who it was and didn’t care, or weren’t taking their job seriously. Two of them were sitting on their heels, playing the rock tossing game that had become popular among the area boys lately. The third leaned with his arms crossed against one of the stall’s rickety supports, seemingly asleep. The street kid scuffed the dust as he inched closer, head ducked down. One arm had a nasty scratch along it; the other supported a ragged plastic bag bulging with junk on the kid’s shoulder. With many complaints about Duante’s cleverness, the Igbo shook his hand, paid up and strode off with the weapon. It was almost noon, and the January heat bored onto Duante’s balding head, through the plastic roof over his stall. He wanted to lock the stall, buy one of Ola’s papaya drinks and sleep for a few hours before opening up for his nighttime business. His shoulders were throbbing again, even though the street docs kept insisting that the pain should have gone away by now. What the hell did they know, anyhow? '' The kid moved in front of him and heaved the bag on the table that Duante used for bargaining. The stink of oil, rusting metal and burned plastic wafted to his nose, an odor that always made his fingers twitch for tools. “Good morning, ''omoluwabi. Some say that honored gentleman will buy interesting things, from the worthless ones,” the kid said, still not meeting his eyes. It always struck him funny how some of the street kids pretended to grand manners when trying to pull one over on you. Looking at her closer, he could see enlarged lower canines pressing against her upper lip. Another Yoruba ork. He’d bet his implants that there were more Yoruba ork street kids than any other type. Before the Awakening, the Yoruba produced more twins than anyone else; they were considered particularly lucky. Now though, Yoruba orks produced four, six or eight babies, all at once. They handed them off to friends, or relatives, or acquaintances at work. Some ended up in orphanages, some got sold as all-but-slaves to unscrupulous drug runners or wealthy people who’d work them to death, but huge numbers ended up on the streets. He couldn’t blame the parents. They had barely enough food for the two or four they kept. Back in his shadowrunning days, he’d chuckled over ork birth control jokes, but he’d stopped laughing in Lagos. You couldn’t wave a stick without hitting ten of them, and nobody could afford to care that they had no chance of seeing a second decade. His head and shoulders ached too much to deal with this crap. “Look kid, whatever you’ve got there isn’t worth spit on a rainy day.” The kid flinched. “Surely the omoluwabi will grant this poor grub a moment to look over her meager possessions.” He sighed. He’d gotten a good reputation among the area boys for a reason though, because he’d throw them a few naira for tips, junk or security, and never ripped them off. His “security” boys had looked up from the game and were watching him in a way that made his neck prickle. A moment to poke through the bag wasn’t too much to spare if it would keep the neighbors happy. He dumped it out roughly on the table. “Kid, nothing here is worth anything. Where the hell did you get it, the dump? If you want money, you’re going to have to do better than this.” While he spoke, his hands automatically worked through the junk, handling the rusty springs, broken bits of plastic and wires. He hesitated over a crusted piece of pipe, recognizing blood on it even if the kid didn’t but tossed it back into the bag with the rest. His cyber hands were even faster at this than his old natural ones. “I can’t give you a naira for this crap, kid. Better try to find a real job or…” he broke off when his hands found something smooth, barely the size of a large coin. He plucked it out of the mess, wiped the dust off on his shirt and squinted at the tiny Renraku logo. “Now what the devil are you doing here,” he breathed at it, forgetting the kid. The case snapped open under his knowing fingers. Inside, just what he’d expected, familiar chips and gears. No power supply, but that could be easily replaced. It was one of the first Renraku microdrones, a yoshigani, complete with tiny crab arms and scuttling retractable legs, only one of which was missing. The legs and claws were stiff with dust, nothing that a bit of work wouldn’t solve. When he’d first started running the shadows, these little things had been his bread and butter, being versatile spies and capable of wedging themselves into the most unlikely places. Obsolete now, but something might be made of this little guy. Riggers in Lagos were so behind the times, he could probably sell it for a tidy profit. For a moment, he missed his old life with a pang that made the ache in his shoulders vanish. . He realized he’d been muttering and pulling on the tiny limbs for several minutes without paying any attention to the kid, who might have robbed the place blind while he played with his new toy. But when he looked up, she was staring at the tiny drone with an almost equal fascination. He stifled a grin, recognizing in that dirty face the same excitement a new, strange piece of machinery always brought to his own heart. He heaved another sigh, feigning a lack of interest. “I’ll give you 10 naira, kid, just to get rid of you. And you’ll clean it up for me before I pay you.” Somehow, despite his efforts, he couldn’t bring himself to drop the little crab back onto the pile of junk. She met his eyes and nodded with trembling eagerness. Didn’t she know anything about how things were done? “What are you, stupid? You can’t just take the first offer someone gives you.” Now she just looked confused. “Surely the honored omoluwabi would not rob anyone.” “Kid, your own mother would rob you if she got a chance, in this crazy world. Don’t you realize this thing is worth at least a hundred naira, even broken as it is?” She swallowed hard, eyes bulging. “You’ll give me a hundred for it?” He could almost see her calculating how many meals she’d get from that. He blew out his breath. “Not a naira more than 20, kid.” She frowned, now utterly lost. After a moment’s hard thought, the concept seemed to sink in and her lips twitched. “Surely the most noble omoluwabi wouldn’t cheat a poor starving orphan who must feed her starving parents. Ninety naira for such a rare and wonderful treasure.” He could hardly quell his own grin and tried to look stern. Sure, an orphan with parents. “This dusty garbage should be used for kindling, and only takes up space on my table that I’d be better off filling with a dead rat. But as I’m a charitable man, I’ll give you 30 naira.” “Eighty and I’ll even clean it for you, for free.” Her voice filled with pretend virtue. “Highway robbery! Why not ask for my lifeblood while you’re at it, you little brigand! How is an honest businessman supposed to make a living with you trying to outsmart him? Fifty is so generous, I would not offer it to my only son, but I’ll give it to you if you’ll stop tormenting me!” A giggle escaped her. “Seventy, omoluwabi, and I’ll clean it and uh…” he could see her thinking hard. “I’ll sell you the next one I find as well,” she finished triumphantly. He pretended to think this over. “The next one as well, eh? And a full cleaning job? Ah, but what is a stupid foreign man supposed to do against such crooked business dealings? And when I go out of business for being too foolish and generous, who will buy your worthless junk? Oh well, perhaps next time I might hope to best you.” He held out his hand to shake on the deal and straightening her shoulders, the girl accepted it. It was the start of a long, productive and unexpected friendship.